Chapter 13

David Harrington, Publisher and CEO of Hartwick Press, was notoriously difficult to impress. In an industry increasingly driven by marketability rather than literary merit, he maintained what some considered outdated standards. He’d built the reputation of the Press by identifying quality that would endure, not just sell well in its first month of release. His friends in the business sometimes joked that he’d been born in the wrong century—he belonged in the era of Maxwell Perkins and the great literary editors.

When his sister Eleanor had called him about a young handyman with remarkable writing, he’d been skeptical. He’d heard similar pitches before. the undiscovered genius, the authentic voice from outside literary circles, the working-class philosopher. Usually, these discoveries fell far short of their promise. But he trusted his sister’s judgment. If she was excited, there must be something to it.

Now, sitting in his corner office with its view of the city skyline, David turned the page of the manuscript Eleanor had compiled from Nicholas Carter’s notebooks. It was Friday evening, and the office had emptied out hours ago. Just how he liked it—quiet, with no interruptions, allowing him to give his full attention to the pages before him.

Eleanor had organized selections from Nicholas’s writings thematically, with her own brief editorial notes providing context. She’d included printouts of some of his photographs as well, suggesting how they might be paired with the text.

David had been reading for over two hours, completely absorbed. He’d forgotten the coffee Eleanor had brought him; it sat cold on his desk.

What struck him most was the voice—clear, direct, unselfconscious. There was none of the stylistic showing off that characterized so many young writers, no straining for profundity or literary effect. Instead, there was a laser-like focus on observation, on capturing the essence of whatever the young man was examining.

An essay on Al, the carpenter, particularly moved him. Nicholas had written about watching the old man working on framing in an entry door on a house during winter, his movements precise despite numbed fingers, his concentration unbroken by the harsh conditions. The piece wove together concrete details of carpentry with reflections on craftsmanship, legacy, and finding meaning in difficulty. Without ever becoming sentimental, it achieved a kind of quiet poetic prose that reminded David of why he’d gotten into publishing in the first place.